


Asphyxiation, And Selling It

by capra



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Asphyxiation, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Character Study, M/M, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Yuzuru Hanyu-centric, cause i think that's what this is, ethical nonmonogamy, inappropriate use of olympic gold medals, is it possible to write porn that's not about the sex?, knife shoes appreciation society, ksas, yuzu needs a lot and he doesn't necessarily go about getting it in the most linear of ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 16:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16998417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capra/pseuds/capra
Summary: by whom should Yuzuru Hanyu be strangled?by whomever is what and whom he needs in that moment.





	Asphyxiation, And Selling It

**Author's Note:**

> enclosed: three vignettes, each beginning in the same place: in bed with Yuzu and a gold medal.  
> what he's seeking, and where it goes from there, are dependent on who he's in bed with.
> 
> As a blanket disclaimer: any and ALL non-monogamy depicted in my fics is entered into consensually by all partners and metamors, unless EXPLICITLY noted in the tags or description of the fic.
> 
> This story is based on a narrow range of cherrypicked personality qualities culled from my personal and very biased interpretation of the publically available personas of real human beings who are, I am quite certain, not similar at all to how they're depicted here.
> 
> In short, it's complete fiction.

* 

“It’s not about  _ not  _ breathing,” Yuzu tells Shoma, whose body still too clearly remembers struggling for breath in the ICU, even if his conscious mind cannot, and recoils at the thought of creating that feeling in someone he loves. 

“It’s nice to have something to strain against sometimes, something to push through,” Yuzu explains, because he knows Shoma knows what  _ that  _ feels like, what a difference it makes to chase a goal, rather than be propelled from behind. Of course, he also knows that  _ he  _ is usually the bulwark against which Shoma throws himself, supported by Yuzu’s presence as much as he is thwarted by it. So it doesn’t surprise him that Shoma receives that explanation with suspicion.

Shoma is well aware of how much Yuzu will twist his own words to show only the parts he wants to, to direct focus where it’s convenient. Yuzuru’s a tactician in everything, even in impulsivity, and Shoma knows him well enough to recognize when Yuzu’s trying to play him – and to recognize when Yuzu tries to use the people around him as tools towards his own self-destruction. Yuzu’s given Shoma plenty of reason for suspicion in the past, but he’s not right now.

Shoma watches Yuzu carefully, looking for his tells, but there’s none to be found. It’s the truth, if not a complete one – there  _ is _ a draw for him in the struggle he’s describing, the struggle he’s asking Shoma to create with him. Being made to strain toward achievement, pulling against the inertia of his own body, the expectations of his previous accomplishments, and the cruel amusement of whatever gods of skating watch over them both – it’s an exhaustingly familiar slope, and increasingly frequent. Ever more Sisyphean, these days, and Yuzu is  _ sick _ of it.

So he hungers to subvert that struggle. Work without strain is pointless, of course - he needs that additional friction, like training a marathon in a swimming pool, because in open air his legs move too easily, too lightly. But of late, the pool has been half-frozen to slush, and every stride forward has cost almost as much in interest as in premium.

Facing a conquerable slope would be a nice change for once, and Yuzu is dying to remember what it felt like to strain himself against something that was actually  _ beatable _ .

Shoma’s eyes narrow, then relax, and the press of his lips shifts – away from  _ suspicious _ , toward  _ listening _ . He understands. Shoma always –  _ always  _ – has seen more,  _ understood _ more, of Yuzu than others do. But Yuzu was still nervous, still anxiously hopeful that this time he would, too.

But it’s Shoma, and Yuzu realizes he shouldn’t have worried. Shoma always comes through.

Yuzu exhales, and smiles, and keeps explaining.

Despite all that, Shoma does put his foot down. He won’t agree to put the ribbon  _ only _ around Yuzu’s neck, so Yuzu curls one hand inside its arc, showing how the bend of his knuckles and the forward pull of his own wrist can keep the ribbon from drawing tight, from letting the constriction get too snug. Yuzu promises not to let Shoma pull too hard on his ‘reins’, waggling his ass, and Shoma laughs. The tension breaks, and Yuzu dives in for a messy, exuberant kiss that soon has Shoma pushing him away in exasperation. Soon, Yuzu is on his knees, his cheek smashed into a pillow, fist knotting in the sheet next to his face so desperately that in the silence of the hotel room, the cotton  _ creaks _ . Kneeling behind him, Shoma settles his stance and exhales. They’re both so ready they ache, and when Shoma gives in, when Shoma  _ moves _ , Yuzu bites his knuckles to keep from screaming.

Shoma fucks like he skates, unstoppable, tireless, with a force that bulldozes opposition. Shoma fucks Yuzu into the mattress, and Yuzu almost expects to be driven all the way through, til the hard bedboard beneath the mattress makes his kneecaps crunch and his elbows sore. He has only one hand with which to dig into the mattress, trying to hold his ground, and it’s a losing battle. His other hand remains between the loop of his medal ribbon and his own throat, as promised.

Yuzu wails when Shoma nails his prostate, sobbing with pleasure. The feedback tells Shoma where to aim, and aim he does. Yuzu gulps for air through howling, hungry tears, knuckles digging into his trachea until it feels like it might crumple. When he comes it’s an afterthought, a footnote, to Shoma’s steady progress, even now only barely faltering as Yuzu’s body seizes around him.

Shoma comes quietly, bitten-off grunts and a final single gasp, hungering for air. He releases his hold on Yuzu’s reins, collapsing forward over Yuzu, and they melt ungracefully down onto the mattress, knees and elbows askew, sides heaving. Freed from Shoma’s pull, Yuzu’s ribbon falls away from his throat, rasping his skin as it goes. The medal itself, broad and flat, weighs heavily on the small of Yuzu’s back, sticky with sweat. The metal is hot from the grip of Shoma’s palm.  
  


*  
  


“It make things simpler,” Yuzu tells Nathan, flat on his back on yet another hotel mattress. The ribbon’s already around his neck, and Nathan’s holding the far end, just short of the medal, but he still looks hesitant, uncertain why they’re doing this, why Yuzu wants this. Why Yuzu wants this  _ from him _ .

“At three minute mark of free,” Yuzu murmurs, “and three-and-half. When your lungs burning, and there is only next thing you need to do. No distraction, no fear, no hesitation. Just next thing.” He sees the light in Nathan’s eyes shift, comprehending.

“It is like that. It’s to feel clear. Clean. To empty my head,” Yuzu explains to Nathan, who seems sometimes like he’s frustrated by the  _ amount _ of air still left to him at the end of a program, five quads later and still not satisfied. Nathan, who hits his ending pose still out of reach of that perfect feeling of zen, that clean sharp satisfaction in which you never want to break the final position because that means coming back down from the high, back down to sea level.

Nathan, whose Salt Lake City lungs couldn’t be more different than Yuzu’s asthmatic ones. Nathan, who understands anyway.

Nathan wraps the medal’s long ribbon around his fist twice, until his knuckles, covered by taffeta ribbon, caress the underside of Yuzu’s jaw. They decide on a safety – three smacks from Yuzu to Nathan’s skin:  _ left, right, left _ . Nathan nods, pulls the ribbon taut, and swings a leg over Yuzu’s hips, mounting him like a thoroughbred. 

Nathan rides Yuzu like a jockey, all compact body, killer thighs, and flawless balance, and Yuzu bucks underneath him as spots dance in the corners of his vision and Nathan fucks himself to satisfaction on Yuzu’s cock. When orgasm overtakes Nathan and his grip on the ribbon falters, a gasp of clean, cold air rips through Yuzu’s lungs, and whites out his vision.

He comes to, still squirming, midway through the exhausted canter of a victory lap, with the finish line left far behind them both. Nathan’s riding him through it, crouched still and as steady as he can be above Yuzu, who’s shuddering from overstimulation but still thrusting up, still circling his hips in search of the last few drops of sensation. Nathan, heels in the stirrups of the bed, rides it out, like Yuzu really  _ is _ a racehorse, finely tuned and tightly strung, needing the gentlest of touches to ease him down out of the blaze and back into reality. Nathan shifts his grip on Yuzu’s shoulder, and the medal thumps against Yuzu’s collarbone and the inside of Nathan’s wrist.

Yuzu bucks, throwing his rider, and rasps for breath. His neck feels bruised, and he knows there’s already purple blooms growing underneath the broad teal and pink ribbon. Wobbly, Nathan lays himself beside Yuzu, wincingly shaking out the cramps in his legs. His mouth opens and closes a few times, though Yuzu can’t see any coherent thought moving behind it.

Nathan’s gaze keeps trying to meet Yuzu’s and getting lost somewhere in the middle distance instead, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed. Yuzu thinks back to Worlds 2012, Sochi 2014, all the early victories that left him more adrift  _ afterward _ than he ever was before. He thinks he understands.

“You brought your Worlds medal?” he asks. “Your turn?” Given the circumstances, Nathan can be excused for taking so long to understand Yuzu’s meaning.  
  


*  
  


“It’s  _ because _ it’s nothing like an asthma attack,” he tells Javi. Javi’s been there at his side through so many of them, some of them the  _ very _ bad ones, so Javi knows this already, but Yuzu says it anyway, because it bears repeating, because Javi feels better when he hears it, and because it  _ isn’t _ about replicating that experience, not on any level. Sometimes Yuzu needs to remind himself of that as much as he needs to remind others.

More, usually.

Javier nods: knowing, calm, and confident. His fingers curl around the side of Yuzu’s neck with delicate, loving care. His thumb traces the curve of Yuzu’s lips, dragging on the lower one, til the plush skin rolls down and his lips part, revealing teeth and the little reflexive flick of the tip of Yuzu’s tongue.

“Nervous?” Javi asks, laughing softly, because Yuzu’s not, and Yuzu laughs softly too, but it’s breathy, and fades into a husky grumble of need halfway through.

“I thought not,” Javi says, and his warm eyes are dark with readiness.

Yuzu lays still, arms flat at his sides, fingers itching to grip the sheets, to move at all. But he holds still, and Javi notes the effort with a glance and an approving nod. Effort seen, acknowledged. Not in vain. Javi leans in for a kiss, thumb still dragging Yuzu’s lip out of line, and Yuzu’s toes curl as Javi demands entrance with his tongue and quiet confidence. Yuzu opens to him, already breathless, but Javi moves slowly, making Yuzu wait for it. Javi’s fingertips massage the back of his neck, just above the muscles that connect his spine to his shoulder, that are always tense, always sore. It’s almost unbearable, and only knowing that Javi isn’t teasing, won’t withhold forever, gives Yuzu the strength not to beg, not to whine into Javi’s mouth.

Javi kisses Yuzu until time stops being a pertinent concept, until it begins to unmoor from reality as thoroughly as Yuzu’s own awareness of it already has. His skin is a tingling mess of misfired signals, all too eager, all talking over each other. Every small breeze of air in the room, every  _ shff  _ of fabric moving as Javi shifts his weight, is a note in the silent cacophony.

Finally Javi decides Yuzu’s ready, finally he decides  _ he’s _ ready. With his free hand, he brushes Yuzu’s bangs back from his forehead, tucks his hair behind his ear. Javi kisses Yuzu’s forehead, gently strokes his palm over Yuzu’s eyes, instructing him to close them. Yuzu does, breath high and shallow in his chest now, and Javi chuckles again, with a little sigh.

“ _ Ay _ , now you are not relaxed all over again.”

“Don’t starting over,” Yuzu pleads, and in the darkness behind his closed eyelids Javi kisses his mouth one more time.

“Of course not,  _ cariño _ ,” he murmurs. “Now bite down.”

The ribbon slips between his teeth with familiarity. Soft across its breadth, just slightly coarse at its edges. Always the same part, the furthest back section at the curve, already dented by bulldog clips and safety pins used to make the medal hang at the right height on his chest. The part where a few more dents and snags in the woven thread won’t be as noticeable. Javi slides it into place gently, and Yuzu tests his tongue under it, measures the grip of his molars around it, making sure it’s where he needs it, where it’ll keep him from biting his own tongue, or the insides of his cheeks. He nods, proving that it’s possible to smile with perfect, beatific peace even with an Olympic-medal-ribbon-gag pushing back the corners of his mouth. Javi exhales, and Yuzu keeps his eyes closed even though the sound of him, the sudden deepening  _ energy _ of him, smells like velvet, feels like slow-dripping chocolate on a sweltering day.

Finally,  _ finally _ , Javi closes his grip around Yuzu’s throat. The web between thumb and fingers stretches across his trachea at the front. Javi's fingers and thumb each span the arteries on either side of his neck. He presses hardest here, and only moderately in the front, so the lack of blood couples with the lack of oxygen into a perfectly married lightheaded deliriousness. Anchored here, hand to throat, Javi supports his weight on his knees and with the strength of his core, so that his body weight doesn’t tip forward onto Yuzu’s neck, so he doesn’t falter. They’ve done this enough times – though the choice of medal has changed, since PyeongChang – and they know what to be careful of. Yuzu’s body begins to tighten, animal hindbrain winding his limbs tight, and his cock bobs taut against his belly as Javi tests his hole, making sure it’s still loose enough after such a long lead up. Yuzu lifts his leg, up and out to the side, and hooks his knee around the back of Javi’s neck, keening. Javi slides inside.  
  


*

**Author's Note:**

> yes, that IS where it ends.  
> if you are mad about that, yell at me in the comments.
> 
> thanks are due to my darlings at KSAS.  
> find me screaming about nathan chen and yuzuru hanyu on discord at KSSC.


End file.
